The Molasses Month

Greetings to all in this first month of 2024. This issue of Me Who Writes is making its appearance several days later than I planned. I have no real reason to offer, other than to say that I have been moving slowly these days.

I am the eldest of five siblings. I didn’t mind the arrival of all the siblings - they were kind of fun and cute when they were sleeping. But as each delightful squalling bundle was added to our crowded little house, my role as “mother’s little helper” grew. As I got bigger each year, my list of household chores did the same. This didn’t necessarily make me happy. Or fast. When I didn’t complete my chores quickly enough for my mom, she used to say that I was “slower than molasses in January.”

We lived in Winnipeg when I was a kid. In a Winnipeg winter, molasses aren’t slow - they’re inert, solid as cement, rigid inside a cupboard that was colder than the kitchen but not quite as cold as it was outside. Mom’s metaphor went right over my puny disgruntled head. I had no idea what molasses were. All I knew was that I didn’t want to fold any more laundry, peel any more potatoes, or dust the dining room.

This month, I am molasses, hardly moving, firmly entrenched in full hibernation mode.

For the first week of 2024, despite the complete absence of snow here in the valley of the Okanagan, I hibernated, devoured several books, went for walks on our trails and our golf courses where the grass was still vivid green. My mind took refuge in imaginary snowbanks of soft powder, retreating from heavier thoughts about weird weather and what it bodes for the future. As I walk, I often count. Along with walking, I find counting meditative. For example, I might count how many steps I take from one marker, say a connecting path, to another, say the footbridge.

Counting makes me think of numbers. In this first month of the year, I found myself thinking about the stalwart number one, the number of beginnings. One is an invitation, an opening to many opportunities, a chance to reflect and plan, to consider different options and perspectives. One of my favourite markers along my various paths is this post, currently decorated with a surprising red bow. To me, the post looks like a one. When the snow finally arrived, it looked like this.

That was over a week ago. I didn’t see it at all last week because our temperatures dropped into the slower-than-molasses-in-January zone. Despite the beautiful blue skies that accompanied the deep freeze, I took to getting my exercise walking up and down the stairs inside my house, often thinking about how fortunate I am to have a house to stay warm in, a house that’s situated in a locale that isn’t being bombed, in a country not at war.

Now that the outside temperatures have become more inviting, the low-hanging clouds full of snow have returned and I am back outside. It’s like walking in a muffled world, quiet except for the sound of my boots packing down the fluff with each step.

Like my body, my writing has also gone into hibernation. After a burst of creative energy that began in early October and didn’t run out of steam until December, my steady word flow gradually slowed from pages to paragraphs to a few forced sentences to nothing, not even a dribble.

I wasn’t surprised, but I was disappointed, largely because I wanted my creative burst to last all winter and also because it feels so good when the writing muscles are in the zone. When they fall out of the zone, it’s as if your best friend has gone awol. I used to get upset when my writing juices temporarily went into hiding, but now I just roll with it. I have become very familiar with the rhythms of my writing year and I’ve learned not to fight them. They are like predictable waves, at their strongest in the spring and the fall, ebbing during the heat of summer and again in the renewal season that is winter. Instead of writing I read a lot, build pots of kitchen-sink soup (containing everything but), and make quick doodle drawings, like this one:

And this:

Or when my mouth wants yet another snack, this:

Or, when a certain thirst hits, this:

The small drawings are fun because they don’t loom as a project. They’re quick and satisfying and they make me smile.

Since starting this newsletter a year ago, I’ve romped through the online community of newsletter writers and bloggers. I subscribe to the ones I like and seek out new ones. I look forward to them arriving in my Inbox each day. They bring me writing tips and reading suggestions, along with genuine human perspectives on art and world situations, and other observations about how to survive in a chaotic world.

The drawing prompts I used to create these quick sketches came from Wendy McNaughton and her terrific GUT newsletter. Here’s my response to the blind contour assignment, a drawing of the narcissus plant that is now over two feet high in my living room. I sat it beside a row of my own books, from the four anthologies my work appears in to the four that are completely my own work. I like seeing them all together.

As each day passes, I feel the dry writing spell starting to lift. The words are beginning to stir in my head again. January is on the wane, which means that my annual creative rhythms are right on schedule.

On the new book front, She Who Burns continues to find readers in its journey out in the world. Requests for more keep coming in. I received a message from Audreys Books in Edmonton saying they’d run out of copies and asking for more. Hooray and thank you Edmonton readers. If you’re in that area and want a copy, head to Audreys and they will get it for you. If you’re not in Edmonton, just go to my website for other ordering options.

Thanks for being readers of Me Who Writes. If you enjoyed this issue, please share it with a friend or two. I’ll be back in this space in a few weeks, give or take a day or three.